Plastic Castle
by Cairnsy
Summary: Some dreams are simply not meant to be. Taito.


Author's notes: First dip into the Digimon fandom. Thanks to the wonderful Kimague for looking over this for me, and for her wonderful and always helpful comments ^_^. Matt seems to want a companion piece to this from his view, and since it's rare for my muses not to get what they want, there is sure to be one on the horizon. Reviews will be gobbled up like chocolate ^_^ 

**Plastic Castle.**

You knew that he would never make it. That despite his ambitions and his dreams, he would find the stars he wanted to hold in his hands would not end up being stars when it all came 'true', but pieces of paper stained green with the faces of dead Presidents and Royalty. And while those little faces surely would have sustained most people, they would only seem ugly to him, an empty promise that had somehow been corrupted into something else along the way. 

You knew. But you had to let him try anyway. 

He had always done the same for everyone else, and you didn't have the heart to tell him that while he was strong enough to deal with being flung into a different universe, and while he was strong enough to battle foreign enemies and not so foreign demons, he wasn't strong enough to live out his dream. A childish, silly dream, but a dream neither less. His dream. 

If you could have, you would have plucked those stars that he longed for down from the heavens yourself and placed them in his hands. You would have built him his own castle, a real one, not the plastic empire that had been manufactured for him by agents and admirers, stalkers and critics. He hadn't prepared for that, even though you had tried to warn him ahead of time. Innocent Matt, who couldn't understand why people would despise him simply because others didn't. Naïve Matt, who was disturbed at being classified as 'wet dream' or 'fantasy' material. 

Your wonderful Matt, who had somehow been misguided enough to think it would all be about the music. 

That was how you had known that each success would be met with an inner disappointment that would out shadow how many albums he might sell or the number of magazines he appeared in. Oh, he wanted his fame and he wanted his recognition, but most of all he wanted his music, and he wanted his music his way. 

Ending up a plastic prince in a plastic castle had not been part of his dream. 

He had tried to make it work, and it had pained you, his varied and at times extreme attempts. He had been alone, far away on the opposite side of the world, and when being the lone wolf failed to make him feel better about his hollow dreams, he tried forcing himself to be the opposite. 

That hadn't lasted long, because he had more sense than those who had surrounded him with their vices and faults. But it scared you all the same, and you will never forget the time he first rang you to say that he'd spent the night partying and had somehow managed to pass out on top of an overly expensive coffee table in some random hotel somewhere between Manhattan and vodka number eight. He'd tried to sound blasé and cool about it all, as though that was the kind of thing he did now that he had reached the top of some singles chart – you can't remember which, not now, after there had been so many. But it is the fear that you remember most, how it overpowered his voice. It was almost as though he was begging you to tell him that he was doing the right thing, that this was what he had always wanted and everything was just perfect. 

It was far from perfect. He hung up on you when you told him that. You waited for three months before he got in contact with you again. Three months of trying to get through that blasted manager of his who loved those ugly, green faces far too much to try and assist his success story's secret lover. Three months of scouring papers and T.V stations to try and find any piece of news about him that you could latch on to. Three months spent wondering if you should confide in T.K about the deep, black hole his older brother was digging for himself. But T.K had already known. Of course he had. 

Matt had known as well. But Matt hadn't been prepared to let go of his dream over something as simple as the fact he hated living every moment of it. 

Three months. But he did contact you in the end. You hadn't realised that hearing from him again after all that time would actually cause you to miss and long for him even more. It had been one of the sacrifices that Matt had made to pursue his dream – you. It wouldn't do for the Next Big Thing to have a very much male lover. His manager had made sure that there were no tours or concerts you could attend, not if you 'truly cared for him'. Oh, you could both talk on the phone and communicate through email, but it just wasn't the same, could never be the same. You liked holding him in your arms and kissing him into breathlessness far too much for it ever to be the same. 

Over a year since you last saw him. Really saw him. Music videos and photo spreads don't count. His plane landed 10 minutes ago. It isn't his manager that keeps him from you now, but the evil that is Customs. 

He sees this as a failure, and it's going to be some time before you can convince him otherwise. But you will. Regardless, he knows that he is doing the right thing, leaving behind his stardom that had been so devoid of stars. You don't quite know what happened for him to finally come to the decision to leave, after hanging in for so long. You suspect that it wasn't any one event, that he simply couldn't be their plastic prince any longer. 

"Hello, Matt." 

You wish you could say that he looks as he did a year ago, pretend that by physically being the Matt you knew then, that he would be mentally as well. But even that is a grace you are not allowed, for although he is still slender and blond and lanky, and beautiful – always beautiful - it is not the same. Not when his slenderness lends itself to a more 'desirable' skinniness, and not when the shade of his hair has its own personalised name. 

"Tai." 

Like idiots, you both stand there. Well, you certainly feel like one anyway. Even when he's just flown half way across the world, Matt still manages to maintain a quiet dignity. But it is a dignity that cannot mask the tiredness that stains brilliant eyes, and it is not the flight that has affected them so. 

"How was your flight?" 

Right now, there isn't anything more that you want than to wrap your arms around him and kiss him senseless. Inane conversations about his plane ride aren't exactly high up there on your list. And yet, it's been over a year. People are already beginning to slow down as they pass you both, flickers of recognition briefly crossing their faces. To these people, he is still a star, they don't realise that he has always shone. How would they react if you suddenly threw yourself at them? No, scratch that. You couldn't give a toss what they think. What would **Matt** think of being outed in a very public place by his over enthusiastic boyfriend? There are far more consequences now, few of them pleasant, all of them sure to headline a paper or two by the morning. 

It isn't your decision to make, but by the time you realise that, Matt has his arms wrapped around your neck, and yours have somehow made their way to his hips in response, pulling him even closer. If that is technically possible. You're not sure it is. 

"God, Tai." His voice is barely more than a husky whisper. "I …" He breaks off, shaking his head slightly. He can't find the words; perhaps they don't exist in the first place. You don't really care, not as you press your lips softly to his. Those tired eyes of his drift shut for a moment, just as they always did. 

You don't want to pull away from him, even though the airport is not the first place you would have chosen if you had to have Matt locked in your arms forever. But you had promised T.K that you would rush his brother home, and it was enough of a sacrifice on the younger blond's part to have let you come on your own in the first place. Plus, the others want to see him as well. As you tell him that, he smiles just slightly, and you fall in love with him all over again. For a moment, that smile of his drives away the taint of weariness in blue eyes, and you wonder, not for the first time, surely not for the last, how anyone could have thought the plastic prince they forced him to become could ever be more than a shadow when compared to the true Matt, beneath it all. 

"Let's go home." You don't let go of his hand - it's a tad too late to aim for subtlety, and Matt hardly seems to mind. He doesn't let you take his suitcase however, just rolls his eyes and complains lightly about how he has to start doing things for himself again eventually. You grumble something about him being a stubborn idiot; you've forgotten the exact words the moment they've left your mouth. 

"Home," He agrees. Your beautiful, talented Matt agrees. Home to his new castle, one bathed in gold. It's been incomplete for some time now, but you think you've found the one missing piece that was stopping it from being whole. 


End file.
